


For Ferelden

by Hatsepsut



Series: Not Your Happy Ending [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everythingnhe had ever done was Ferelden...and as the timeof reckoning draws near, it is also for Fereldan that he might die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Ferelden

The time of reckoning was near, and he knew it. There was a time, in every man’s life, when he would have to account for whatever mistakes he had made; the time for him was now, and the place was here.

A weary sigh escaped him, then he squared his shoulders with determination. It was inevitable. What he had done had been necessary, it had meant the continuous survival of what he’d given his all to protect all his life. He’d been right to make those decisions- the difficult decisions no one else had the courage to even think of.

And now he would answer for them, defend himself against those that claimed his actions were a crime, were treason of the highest degree. He would have to stand in front of the very people that threatened what he had poured blood and sweat to preserve and look them in the eye while they accused him of being a monster.

He had nightmares sometimes, some nights, of voices crying out in the distance, of the awful clang and ding of battle, of the grinding sounds that monstrous jaws made as they gnawed on freshly killed human flesh. But it had been necessary. It had been essential. It needed to be done, and he had never cowed in front of difficult decisions.

He picked up his sword, and strapped it on, looking at the edge for a few seconds. He knew this night might end with his death; he felt it in his bones. He wouldn’t surrender without a battle; he had spent most of his life fighting, and fighting was how he planned to go down.

A squire came in to inform him the nobles had assembled, and were waiting for him for the proceedings to begin. He took one last calm breath then squared his shoulders, threw his chin back, rehearsed his words for the last time. He wasn’t nervous, not at all, but he wanted to be prepared. If this was the last chance to change the course of this country’s wildly spiraling path to destruction, he wanted to ready, he wanted to give this his all.

As he had always done for Ferelden.

They passed the chapel on the way to the Great Hall, and obeying a deep, unexpected compulsion in the pit of his belly, he sent the squire ahead, then slipped into the dimly lit little alcove. A statue of Andraste was sitting in a niche in the wall, half-burned candles casting a sickly, pale glow on her fair features.

He stood there, in front of her, wondering why he had felt the need to stop here, and growing impatient with himself for not being able to make his legs move. His eyes wondered around, then came to stop on a pew in front of him. He stretched out one had and touched the wood; there was a name carved there, and his calloused, battle roughened hand traced every letter. He knew this name, knew the golden haired little boy that had nicked the dark, gleaming wood.

_“Cailan,” a stern voice made the little boy jump. “Stop fidgeting.”_

_The blond boy froze in place under the strict, unflinching gaze of his father. He bowed his head, but not before making eye-contact with the general at his father’s side. A small smile peeked on his rosy cheeks, and the usually stoic man could not resist answering it with a wink and a small grin. The boy’s smile grew wider, before he bowed his head again and pretended to pray._

_There was a little penknife hidden in the sleeve of his shirt, and after a while, he went back to secretly carving his name on the back of the pew in front of him._

Loghain caressed the carved, childish letters now, and suddenly he knew why he was there, in this old chapel. He closed his eyes on a sigh. Cailan was going to destroy them all, he was going to offer back to the Orlesians what Loghain and his father had bled to win back. He had been a danger to Ferelden. He had been a danger to them all. He was going to surrender this country to the empire that had raped, pillaged and oppressed this country, and Loghain could not – _would not_ \- allow it.

But he had also been a bright-eyed little boy, all golden hair and dimpled smiles, who had looked on him with wide, hero-worshipping eyes. He had also been a young man that had come to Loghain for advice when he had first started noticing girls. He had been a young, blushing man, who had fumbled though a wedding proposal to Loghain’s own daughter, who had smiled after the wedding and told him that he had always considered him a second father, and now he was glad that he really was his son.

Cailan’s brother and the ragtag group that he travelled with would soon crash this Landsmeet, and demand explanations for Loghain’s actions, accuse him of treason, of having let Cailan die. And while he knew his decision had been made to protect Ferleden from the foolish, naïve delusions of a kind that was obsessed with glory, he also knew...he _had_ left Cailan behind to die. He had abandoned the boy he had watched grow up; he had turned his back and let him be eaten by darkspawn. He had walked away, knowing full well that the monsters behind him were feasting on the flesh of his friends’ son.

Had the young man’s last moments been painful? Had he wondered why his childhood hero hadn’t come to his rescue? Had his eyes widened with his first- and last- true taste of the terrible reality of war?

He bowed his head, and spoke, not the young man he had known so well, but to his long time friend, King Marric, the father of the man he condemned to a grisly end, and of the young man who would soon come asking for Loghain’s blood.

“We might meet soon, old friend,” he said. “Or I might send another son to you. Either way, I am _not_ sorry. I did what had to be done. I did what was necessary. I would do it again.”

The flame of the candle in front of him flickered and then die, making a hissing sound that sounded like disapproval.

“I _would_ do it again,” the Hero of River Dane, raised his voice, conviction in his tone, but regret in his heart.

“I would do it again,” he repeated. “You would too.”

He paused, caressed the childish scribble on the back of the pew in front of him again, then drew his sword and saluted the ghosts of his past, that were so powerful in this place.

“For Ferelden!” he just said, then sheathed his sword and turned away.

He could do much worse, betray people much closer to him, commit the most atrocious crime for Ferelden. He would turn on his own daughter, let the boy he had considered his son be ripped apart by darkspawn- he already had.

For Ferelden.

He would die, go to his end willingly- for Ferelden.

Just before opening the doors to the Hall where the Landsmeet was going to be held, a small wave of bitter regret flooded his heart;  a feeling of resentment, a small spark of anger. He had given so much to Ferelden already...she had taken so much from him.

Maker, but Ferelden was a greedy, demanding bitch, wasn’t she?

 

 


End file.
